Chaos Comes to Longbourn
by KincaidVic
Summary: This is a humorous P&P variation in which eight of Austen's characters are engaged to the wrong person. Darcy and Elizabeth have feelings for each other, so they must untangle the misbegotten betrothals. There is an HEA. The first six chapters are posted here. The whole book has been published and is available at online stores.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

 _Why do I wish to dance with Elizabeth Bennet?_

This must have been the fiftieth time Darcy had asked himself that question. As he had seen her speaking with her sisters, the impulse to request her hand for the dance had been so strong that Darcy had only resisted by quitting the Netherfield ballroom altogether. He strode away from the room as fast as was socially acceptable, ignoring a few quizzical glances as he fought the impulse to return.

It was true that Miss Elizabeth's eyes were fine, especially when she smiled. They sparkled as if she knew some wonderful secret to happiness. And her figure was light and pleasing, particularly draped in the ivory silk gown she wore tonight. She was an accomplished dancer; he could discern her superior abilities even though she had been partnered with that oaf, the pastor who was her cousin. And her hair…all those dark curls. If Darcy could only sink his fingers into—

No! Darcy paused in the middle of the corridor, resisting the impulse to bang his head against the wall. _I must not think about her. Dancing with her is out of the question._ Her station in life was decidedly beneath his, and many members of her family ignored proper social decorum. Even friendship was out of the question. Given how much she occupied his thoughts, he should not even speak with her. Just spying her across the room wreaked havoc with his equilibrium.

Determined to leave this strange obsession behind, Darcy resumed striding along Netherfield's back hallway. He would sequester himself in the library, where he could safely pass the time until these unbidden and unnecessary sensations had passed.

He scrutinized the line of closed doors before him. Which one led to the library again? A volume of history or one of Shakespeare's plays should serve as a sufficient distraction until he recovered his wits and could once more trust himself in Elizabeth Bennet's presence.

"Oh…Wickham!" Lydia sighed as the man traced a line of kisses from her ear to her shoulder. Truthfully it tickled, but she stifled her giggles; the man in the dashing red coat wanted to hear noises of pleasure from her.

"Lydia," Wickham whispered. "You are the prettiest girl I ever beheld."

 _Oh, he was so romantic!_ Lydia could not suppress a delighted giggle this time. To be sure, no one had ever uttered similar words to any of her sisters. She was the first! Well, perhaps Mr. Bingley had said something similar to Jane but not while he kissed her neck.

Lydia could barely see Wickham. His form was silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in through the window, but his face was in shadow. Not that she needed to see him when she could feel him; his hands on her back, her shoulders—even her bottom—felt deliciously illicit.

"Remember that we must not tell anyone about this…little tryst," Wickham murmured. His warm breath ghosted over her bare neck.

"I will remember."

Wickham's mouth once again latched onto her neck.

Idly, Lydia wondered which room they had slipped into. After she had consumed all those cups of wine punch, Wickham had escorted her outside to the gardens behind Netherfield, but she had objected vociferously to the cold, so he had found an unlocked door which admitted them to a dark, unoccupied room at the back of the house. They had not found a candle to light the room, but from the sound of the echoes, it must be fairly large. The floor also seemed somewhat uneven, but that might have been the effect of the wine punch.

Wickham's fingers stole inside the edges of her neckline, and Lydia gasped. _What a wicked place to touch her!_ He paused for a moment, observing her closely, but after she smiled, he continued his exploration.

Wickham's hand slipped further into Lydia's bodice, caressing her shoulder; he showered her mouth with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. She moaned with a completely inauthentic enthusiasm. Denny was a far superior kisser, but he was too "proper" to do something as fun as stealing away from a dance for some laughs. Wickham was just as handsome and wore a red coat, too—and he was far more fun.

Why was it so "wicked" to be alone with a man? She was supposed to attract male attention; after all, it was the whole object of a dance. Most girls her age only attracted boys, not real men like Wickham. And the way Wickham touched her was not unpleasant—for the most part. Lydia just knew that if she gave these soldiers what they wanted from her, one of them would propose marriage. Then she would be the first Bennet sister to be married—and she, the youngest of them all! As Wickham kissed her neck, Lydia stared into the darkness and smiled at that vision.

However, an unwelcome thought struck her. What if Mr. Bingley proposed to Jane, and Lydia was still unwed? That would not do! She must redouble her efforts to capture Wickham's attention.

Lydia arched her back, pushing her breasts against Wickham's chest. Men seemed to like that, and Wickham was no exception. He groaned huskily, and his hands moved to massage her back.

A loosening at the back of her gown told her that Wickham had untied the laces that held her dress together. "Oh!" she exclaimed. This was a new experience but not necessarily unwelcome. Perhaps Wickham would propose if she allowed him this liberty.

Her dress slid off one shoulder, baring her breast to the cool air. Lydia could not prevent a shiver. In the next moment, Wickham's hand held her breast, mashing it most unpleasantly. But Lydia did not flinch. Perhaps this was the method for winning a proposal, although she had trouble imagining Mr. Bingley doing this with Jane.

Fortunately, the act was not too uncomfortable, and Lydia wanted Wickham to like her, so she would not complain. She stared into the surrounding darkness and made the little moaning noises men seemed to like. _I wonder what room we are in…?_

"Mama?" Elizabeth dared to interrupt her mother in mid-gossip with Mrs. Long. "Where is Lydia?"

Standing near the ballroom's windows, Elizabeth's mother could not have looked more annoyed. "Oh, I do not know!" Her hands fluttered about. "Off dancing with one of the officers, no doubt, which is what you had best be doing. They are a handsome lot!"

Elizabeth caught her mother's arm before she could rejoin the chattering ladies. "She is not dancing. I have not seen her this past half hour. Even Kitty does not know her whereabouts."

Mama shrugged carelessly. "Perhaps she is with that handsome Mr. Wickham getting some punch."

"Mr. Wickham?" Elizabeth asked. "I thought he had avoided the ball because of Mr. Darcy."

"Well, of course, Mr. Wickham wished Mr. Darcy to believe that!" Mrs. Bennet waved around her closed fan. "Mr. Darcy has such a handsome…fortune. What a shame he does not have a better character."

Elizabeth tended to agree; the man was unpleasant and proud. She had often caught him staring at her throughout the evening. No doubt he was cataloguing her every fault and misstep.

Mama flicked her fan open and fanned herself with great determination. "Mr. Wickham is here. He spoke with Kitty and Lydia not less than an hour ago."

Why did this news fill Elizabeth with unease? It was unremarkable, save that everyone in Mr. Darcy's party seemed to believe the militia officer was untrustworthy. She tended to disbelieve them, particularly after Mr. Wickham's description of how Mr. Darcy had treated him.

Well, Mr. Wickham scarcely mattered at this moment. She must locate Lydia. Elizabeth and Jane had agreed that their youngest sister should always be supervised at such occasions. But Elizabeth had lost sight of Lydia, and Jane was dancing with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth wanted to credit Lydia with the wisdom not to slip away with a man, but she could not be certain. The thought sent terror down her spine. _What if a man hurt Lydia? Or disgraced her?_ The Bennet family generated quite enough gossip already; they did not need Lydia to ignite a scandal.

Elizabeth grabbed her mother's hand. "We must find her!

Her mother tried to pull free from Elizabeth's grasp. "You do not need me."

Elizabeth would not release her. "Lydia will not heed me. You must help me find her before she does something foolish!"

Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes, apparently annoyed at the prospect of protecting her daughter's virtue. But finally she heaved a heavy sigh. "Oh, very well!" She allowed herself to be led from the ballroom.

Darcy had opened three doors so far. One had proved to be a closet, and two were unused parlors. He was certain the library was along this hallway, but where? Darcy reached the last door in the hallway and opened it. The room was swathed in shadows, but the echoes and musty smell of books revealed that this was the right place. Excellent.

The Netherfield library was a particularly large room, although the collection was unexceptional. It boasted several comfortable chairs, and Darcy eagerly anticipated the escape that books would provide. Perhaps _Romeo and Juliet_ …no, a comedy _. Much Ado About Nothing_? _Twelfth Night_?

A faint scuffling emanated from the other side of the room near the windows. Was there another person in the library? Someone who was sitting in the dark?

Darcy experienced a surge of anxiety and anger on Bingley's behalf. Was a guest taking advantage of Bingley's generosity? He could think of no good reason—but a number of bad ones—why someone would lurk in a darkened library.

There had been an oil lamp on the small table in the hallway. After opening the door, Darcy was able to reach out his arm until his fingers closed on the handle. When he pulled the lamp back into the library warm yellow glow illuminated his immediate neighborhood but did not reach the furthest corners of the room.

"Who is there?" Darcy held the lamp aloft so the light could more easily penetrate the darkness. There. He could make out a shadowy figure—or was it two?—in the northwest corner near the door to the back gardens.

The sounds of a muffled curse and the rustling of clothing were followed by a very feminine giggle. Oh, devil take it, had Darcy interrupted an assignation? In the library? Had they no respect? Anger surged through his veins, and he advanced on that corner of the room, hoping to discern more. "Who is there? Show yourself!"

Another curse in a most definitely masculine voice lent credence to Darcy's theory, but he was not near enough to see more than two vague shapes. One moved quickly, and the door creaked open. For a moment a male figure was silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and then he was gone; the door swung shut.

Was the woman still here? Another giggle answered that question. Damnation! Then there was a thump and a moan. _Had the young lady hurt herself? Had the departing man injured her? What if she had been unwilling?_

Coming across another lamp, Darcy hastily lit it and left both blazing on a tall table behind a sofa. Now he could discern the form of a girl slumped near the door, unmoving. _Was she unconscious?_

Darcy quickened his pace. The girl opened her eyes and blinked at him owlishly—more likely foxed than injured. She wrestled herself into a sitting position, and it was then that Darcy realized the top of her bodice was untied, exposing her breasts!

He should help her cover up! No, he should leave at once! He should look! No, he should not! Torn among conflicting impulses, Darcy lurched forward, his footsteps faltering. As he neared the corner, his foot encountered an unexpected obstacle in the form of a chair leg. Darcy tripped spectacularly, falling full length on top of the half-dressed girl.

The girl squealed. "Ow! You oaf! Get off! Move your hands!" Darcy hastened to comply, quickly removing his hands from anything that might resemble a female body part. "Get your hands off me!" the girl shrieked completely unnecessarily.

Darcy scrambled backward, attempting to find purchase and regain his feet.

Then he froze at the most horrible sound in the world: the opening of the library door. A female form entered the library from the hallway, silhouetted by candlelight from behind. "Lydia?" a voice called. Darcy had no trouble identifying its owner. Of all the women at the ball, it had to be Elizabeth Bennet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Here, Lizzy!" the half-dressed girl called to her sister.

 _Oh, no, no, no! Why did she say anything at all?_ Why could they not pretend the library was uninhabited?

"I heard someone screaming," Elizabeth said, her voice low with concern.

"Yes, that was me," Lydia admitted, not sounding in the least distressed.

"She is here, Mama!" Elizabeth called down the hallway. "I have found her!"

Darcy's position on the floor had concealed his presence behind various pieces of furniture. His sole object was escape, through the garden door if necessary, before anyone connected him with this awkward and scandalous situation. But every escape route involved standing. So Darcy stood hastily, not even taking a second to straighten his badly disheveled clothes, and gingerly stepped toward the door. Perhaps Elizabeth would not recognize him from the back.

"Mr. Darcy?"

 _Or perhaps she would._

He turned slowly to face her. There was no purpose to be served in dissembling. Elizabeth's brow furrowed in perplexity as she regarded him.

Then Lydia Bennet stood up, and Elizabeth's mouth gaped open.

Miss Lydia used one hand to preserve her modesty by clutching the front of her unlaced dress to her chest. The dress sagged alarmingly; one sleeve had fallen from her shoulder, and the other was balanced rather precariously. "Lydia, you must cover yourself!" Elizabeth cried, hastening across the room.

Darcy jerked his eyes away so quickly that he had a moment of vertigo. Instead, he was treated to the sight of Mrs. Bennet joining their merry band. She bustled through the doorway officiously but gaped at what she saw.

"Lydia!" Mrs. Bennet shrieked at her youngest daughter.

"Hello, Mama," Lydia slurred drunkenly. "I was looking for a book."

Mrs. Bennet shrieked again, a wordless cry of dismay. Darcy was tempted to cover his ears but could not quite bring himself to be so impolite.

Glancing down at the loosened bodice, Lydia giggled. "No wonder it feels so cold in here!" With a little smirk, she yanked up the sleeves so the bodice did not hang so precariously. Standing behind her sister, Elizabeth hastily tied the laces on the back of Lydia's bodice.

Elizabeth glared at Darcy—at which point he realized that perhaps he should avert his eyes. The carpet. It was a very fine carpet, and no one would object if he stared at it.

 _Oh, this was not good. Not good. Not good at all._ Darcy had been caught in a darkened room with a foxed, partially clad girl from a respectable family. No matter what he said, the circumstances were incriminating. _There must be a way to address this situation before it spins out of control_. But Darcy's mind was not working properly. The combination of naked breasts, Elizabeth's scorn, and Mrs. Bennet's continued shrieking had somehow rendered his mind nonfunctional. He felt like a fox at the end of a fox hunt—surrounded on all sides.

There was a moment of absolute silence while Mrs. Bennet gasped. "W-what were you doing to my daughter? You libertine!" Suddenly, Darcy missed the shrieking. "Oh, I knew it as soon as I saw you! You are the worst kind of rake—a rogue and a scoundrel!"

Darcy was not accustomed to having such language directed at him. "I beg your pardon…?"

"Look at her!" Mrs. Bennet shrieked, gesturing to her youngest daughter. When Darcy glanced in the girl's direction, she cried, "No, do not look at her!"

He turned back to Mrs. Bennet's red, outraged face and took a deep breath before responding. "Nothing happened, Mrs. Bennet. I assure you. I happened upon your daughter as I was in search of a—"

"You came to be alone with my half-dressed sister in a dimly lit library _by accident_?" Elizabeth scoffed. Darcy could not prevent a wince; of all the women at the ball, why was she the one to have discovered him in this ridiculous situation?

Darcy drew himself up and straightened his cravat. "Well, yes." He was aware how absurd the claim sounded, but it was the truth. "When I arrived, Miss Lydia was lying in the corner. I wanted to help her, but I tripped and fell on top…" Darcy's voice petered out. Any details he added at this point would only make the situation worse.

It did not help that Lydia chose that moment to burst into tears.

"I never thought very highly of you, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth intoned as she put a comforting arm around her sister's shoulders.

 _Wait, she did not?_

"But I at least thought you too honorable to take advantage of girl who is but fifteen!"

 _Oh, Good Lord! The girl was fifteen?_ Georgiana was barely older. Elizabeth's family would think him scarcely better than Wickham. No, it was intolerable!

Darcy rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I do not molest children!" His voice sounded shrill and strained to his own ears. "Another man was present. He escaped through the door to the gardens! Lydia was already dishabille when I arrived—"

"How convenient for you," Elizabeth sneered. Her words were punctuated by a sob from her sister.

"Ask her!" Darcy demanded. "Ask Miss Lydia. No doubt she arrived here with the man."

Just as the words left his mouth, Darcy realized how badly he had miscalculated. Lydia's hands fell from her tear-streaked face, her eyes wide with horror. She would never admit she had willingly accompanied a man into a darkened room.

Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth stared at Lydia. "Lydia, what happened?" Elizabeth asked gently.

For a moment Darcy entertained the hope that Lydia would tell the truth, but then she shook her head vigorously. "No! There was never anyone else. I am not that sort of girl!" She dabbed her eyes theatrically with a handkerchief.

Some man had undoubtedly lured her away from the dance with promises and flattery she was too naïve to question. If she were not seeking to tarnish his reputation, Darcy would feel more than a fleeting moment of sympathy.

Mrs. Bennet's shrieks had brought a throng of guests crowding around the library's doorway, including—much to Darcy's horror—Bingley and Mr. Bennet. Behind them stood that fool of a cleric, Elizabeth's cousin. Darcy's stomach clenched and roiled at the sight of so many eyes observing and judging him.

Pushing his way into the room, Bingley shot Darcy a sympathetic glance. "Mrs. Bennet, I am sure it is all a misunderstanding."

"No! No, there is no misunderstanding!" Mrs. Bennet's voice climbed into higher and higher registers. "He has taken advantage of my poor girl! He has ruined her reputation! Everyone will know!"

Darcy refrained from observing that the situation could have been concealed were it not for Mrs. Bennet's shrieks.

Mr. Bennet stepped into the room, his face a grim mask. "I believe there is only one honorable course of action open to you, Mr. Darcy."

A herd of horses galloped through his stomach, and his heart threatened to pound out of his chest. Oh, merciful heavens! Lydia's father expected him to offer marriage. _Let this be some horrible dream!_ Darcy paused. Unfortunately, he did not awaken.

Darcy stared at Lydia Bennet: silly, sobbing, foxed, and willing to leave a ball unchaperoned with some unknown man. Without any family position, good understanding, or clever conversation, she met none of his criteria for a wife. In fact, she was the exact opposite in almost every way. If he had wanted a young, empty-headed chit, the _ton_ could supply many with impeccable pedigrees.

His eyes brushed past Elizabeth, who glared at him implacably. Asking her to dance was the least of his concerns now. The thought struck him as darkly humorous.

However, he was troubled by the thought that she would think ill of him, that she would see him as capable of seducing and abandoning her sister. She had already declared her low opinion of him; he would hate to confirm it.

Mrs. Bennet wept noisily into her handkerchief while a scowling Mr. Bennet stalked toward Darcy. "Well, Darcy? What will it be?"

If he failed to propose now, Elizabeth and the other onlookers would think him without honor. But the thought of proposing was…profoundly distasteful. Of course, a proposal was not a marriage. If he proposed under duress now, Darcy might later find a way to escape the obligation. The Bennet family might agree to a monetary settlement, but they could hardly discuss such a compromise here, in front of witnesses.

Yes, he would find the means to escape the situation later. For now he need only scrape together the remains of his dignity and live to fight another day. Devil take it!

He turned to the disheveled, red-faced, sobbing fifteen-year-old. "Miss Lydia," he said through gritted teeth.

"Y-yes?" She granted him a quizzical smile and a hiccup.

"Would you do me the honor of being my wife?" Darcy was proud he did not choke on the words. He did not have the slightest hope the chit would reject him; his fortune was too tempting.

"M-marry you?" Lydia laughed.

 _Laughed!_

Darcy failed to see any humor in the situation. "W-why would I want to marry you?" She giggled, swaying a bit on her feet.

Was the girl touched in the head?

A frowning Mr. Bennet advanced on his daughter and took her arm. "Lydia, you _must_ accept him," he explained in a low voice. "Your reputation has been compromised."

"But look at him!" She waved wildly at Darcy. "He's so stuffy and formal and _dull_. And he does not even possess a red coat!" A couple of onlookers tittered. Even Mr. Bennet's lips twitched. However, Elizabeth's glare did not relent.

Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. This was a farce in every possible way.

"That may be true, my dear," Mr. Bennet spoke gently to his daughter while staring daggers at Darcy, "but you must accept him anyway."

"I don't want to!" Lydia stamped her foot like a child denied a sweet.

"You must." Mr. Bennet's voice now held a hint of steel. "You would not wish to experience a decrease in your allowance for hats and gloves."

Lydia glared at her father. "Papa, that is unfair!" He crossed his arms and regarded her sternly. Finally, she stepped backward and slumped into a chair with a huff. "Very well! Yes, Mr. Darcy, I accept." Her face arranged itself in a very unattractive pout.

Darcy wondered if there had ever been a less romantic marriage proposal in the history of the world. However, if Lydia possessed that little enthusiasm, perhaps they could reach some sort of agreement which would not leave him leg-shackled. Never before had he been grateful for being considered dull! Of course, he had never before encountered a woman who thought ten thousand a year was dull.

Bingley began to direct guests—all chatting excitedly—toward the library door. Lydia returned to sobbing into her hands. With a scowl at Darcy, Mrs. Bennet swept across the floor to take the chair next to Lydia's. "It will not be so bad, my dear. Mr. Darcy is very rich." Standing next to Lydia, Elizabeth colored at her mother's tactlessness.

Darcy closed his eyes. _This could not possibly be happening_.

"Rich?" Despite being muffled, Lydia's tone was definitely interested.

"Yes!" Mrs. Bennet trilled. "You will have many fine dresses and carriages!"

Lydia peeked through her hands. "More than my sisters?"

"I daresay. They are not liable to find wealthier husbands!"

Lydia clapped in excitement. "La!" she squealed. "How droll!" _She certainly recovered from her mortification quickly._

Darcy could almost see the hope for an agreement with Lydia slipping further away. Why would the girl accept a fraction of his fortune when she believed she was entitled to all of it?

But there was nothing he could accomplish tonight. Perhaps he could convince Lydia to break off their engagement tomorrow, once she had sobered. Darcy spun on his heel and strode toward the hallway.

He needed a brandy. Or two. Or ten.

Mrs. Bennet's shrill tones followed him as he hurried away. "I daresay you will like being his wife. Mrs. Darcy! Oh, how _well_ that sounds!"

"Yes, indeed!" Lydia agreed with a giggle.

Lydia might like being Mrs. Darcy, but Darcy could not conceive how he would survive Lydia.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Clang!

A servant dropped a set of silver tongs on the floor of the breakfast room, but it was as loud as a church bell to Darcy. He started, dropping his fork on his plate and producing another painfully loud clatter. _Delightful._

Darcy massaged his temples. Those glasses of brandy—how many had it been?—had seemed an excellent idea the previous evening after he had escaped the debacle in the library. However, his throbbing head and queasy stomach now told him that he should have been more abstemious. He could not help reliving last night's disaster over and over. How had it happened? While attempting to escape one Bennet sister, how had he ended up engaged to another? Surely it was some horrible nightmare.

Foolishly, his mind insisted on repeatedly recollecting the expression on Elizabeth Bennet's face when she thought Darcy had debauched her sister. It was absurd. Given the terrible circumstances, Elizabeth's estimation should be the least of Darcy's concerns. But his memory insisted on producing again and again the image of her horror and disgust. _If only I could explain the circumstances to her! Help her see the truth!_ But it was a hopeless wish; he was not liable to see Elizabeth again in a setting which would allow personal confessions. And it was not an easy subject to broach. _By the way,_ _I know you believe I molested your sister, but she actually allowed a_ different _man to unlace her bodice._

Darcy pressed his palms to his eyes. What was he thinking? He did not desire Elizabeth's good opinion, and it was fruitless to hope for it now. He had far greater problems to resolve—such as how he could rid himself of Miss Lydia's claim on his hand. _I have made a complete mull of this_. He stared down at a plateful of breakfast, which made his stomach churn.

Bingley regarded him sympathetically from across the table but had said little to him since Darcy had come down. _What was there to say?_ Darcy thought Bingley believed him about the other man in the library, but it did him no good.

Hurst concentrated on shoveling eggs into his mouth. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had just seated themselves. "Charles told me of the events in the library," Miss Bingley said. "It is a complete travesty! You must not allow it to stand."

Darcy nodded wearily but did not respond. While he was grateful for the outrage on his behalf, it would mean more coming from a woman who was less interested in his fortune.

"You would never run off with a fifteen-year-old country chit. Anyone acquainted with you would know that," she drawled.

Darcy felt damned by faint praise. Perhaps Miss Bingley thought him capable of such despicable behavior with someone slightly older and of a better family.

Any reply he made would not be civil, so he held his tongue.

"It is horrible!" agreed Mrs. Hurst. "I am certain it was all a scheme. Those Bennets probably planned it all. And you fell right into their trap!"

Darcy bristled; he would never have agreed to a betrothal if he had believed the Bennets were entrapping him. "It was not a deliberate trap. There was a man in the library who escaped out the garden door. I did not see his face."

Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged knowing looks. "Whoever he was, he probably colluded with the Bennets in their scheme!"

Feeling thick-witted and disinclined to speak, Darcy was not equal to the task of explaining to Bingley's sister that nobody could have possibly known he would enter the library. Nor did he bother describing Lydia's utter dismay at the prospect of their engagement. _That makes two of us_ , he thought darkly.

"I never trusted those Bennets," Mrs. Hurst declared.

"Neither did I, Sister. Neither did I!" Miss Bingley agreed. "You cannot allow this betrothal to stand, Mr. Darcy. It happened under coercion and false pretenses. You must free yourself from the entanglement with all haste and immediately attach yourself to a more suitable young lady."

Her attempt at a coy smile gave a not-so-subtle hint of which young lady she had in mind. Darcy stared at his uneaten food, wondering whether Caroline Bingley would be a better choice than Lydia Bennet. _Perhaps I should emigrate to America_.

Then Miss Bingley turned her cool, appraising gaze onto her brother. "Charles, I think you should take Mr. Darcy's misfortunes as instructive."

Bingley, who had been staring out of the window, blinked in surprise at his sister. "Caroline?"

Miss Bingley spoke slowly as if to a small child. "I know you like Jane Bennet, and she is a sweet girl. But look what her family is capable of! Why, even now they may be scheming how they can ensnare you into marriage!"

"Hmm." Bingley appeared not to mind the idea of being ensnared by Jane Bennet.

Miss Bingley was working herself into high dudgeon. "It is insupportable! You must be free to choose your own wife. And it cannot be Jane Bennet. You should not let another tell you who to marry." Darcy managed not to laugh at the irony.

Miss Bingley gestured forcefully with her fork, sending bits of egg flying all over the table as she addressed her brother. "If you do not care about yourself, at least think of your family! A forced marriage—particularly to someone from that family—would be a disgrace."

Darcy winced. How would he tell this story to Georgiana? Perhaps he could extricate himself from the situation before it was necessary.

Bingley shrank back into his chair as his sister leaned forward to emphasize her point. "Consider how such a disgrace would affect me and Louisa—and Mama. She might have apoplexy if such stories are spread about you!" By now Bingley had turned an alarming shade of white.

Although Darcy did not care for Miss Bingley, she was impressively skilled at manipulating her brother. If only she would turn those talents in a more productive direction. She knew Bingley would not sacrifice his happiness for his own honor, but he would avoid bringing any disgrace on his family. Darcy felt sorry for Bingley. Watching him argue with his sister was a bit like watching someone attempt to fend off a dragon with a butter knife.

He considered intervening, but on the whole, Bingley would be better off without Jane Bennet. Although Darcy could absolve the family of deliberate scheming, he was not charitably inclined toward them at the moment. With the exception of Elizabeth and Jane, they were generally vulgar and far inferior in both birth and manners to anyone in Darcy's circles. Bingley's sisters were most likely correct that he should avoid the clutches of the Bennet family.

"Yes, indeed, Sister!" Mrs. Hurst trilled on cue as if their united front against Bingley had been rehearsed in advance. "We should leave Hertfordshire at once and give those Bennets no more opportunities to scheme against us."

Bingley twisted his napkin nervously in his lap, licking his lips. "But—but—"

Miss Bingley did not allow her brother to formulate his objection. "Indeed, Louisa. That is a brilliant plan! We could pass quite an enjoyable Christmas in town. I would imagine Mr. Darcy is eager to quit Hertfordshire."

 _She had no idea._ "Yes," Darcy said aloud. "I will leave today in any event. I must consult with my solicitor." _And find a way to escape this tangle with my honor intact._

"But I _like_ Jane Bennet." Bingley's plaintive tone suggested he had already conceded the fight.

Miss Bingley patted her brother's hand reassuringly. "We do as well. But her family is so highly undesirable. Just see how they have treated poor Mr. Darcy!"

Darcy shifted in his seat. He disliked being a cautionary tale.

"We must leave immediately!" Mrs. Hurst exclaimed. "Who knows what plots they are scheming even now? They might be planning an afternoon visit today!" Her tone was one customarily reserved for announcements of enemy troop movements.

"Oh yes, Sister!" Miss Bingley's eyes were wide with horror as she turned to Bingley. "You are in grave danger. We must depart now; tomorrow will be too late."

Darcy suppressed a snort of laughter at the ladies' theatrics. However, they were effective. "Very well," Bingley said, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I will have the carriage made ready. We shall leave today."

"Very good." Miss Bingley settled back in her chair with a satisfied smile.

Bingley mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "Perhaps I should call on the Bennets and explain—"

"No!" Miss Bingley practically yelled. "No," she repeated more sedately. "They might be lying in wait for just such an opportunity. I will write a letter to Jane."

Bingley's expression remained dubious, but he nodded. "Very well."

Elizabeth knocked on the door of the room Lydia shared with Kitty. "Come in!" Lydia's voice lilted. _Well, at least she is not traumatized after her adventure last night_ , Elizabeth thought.

Kitty was not there, but Lydia sat in bed, eagerly devouring the contents of the breakfast tray before her. "See what Mama had Hill bring up?" Lydia beamed. "Usually I only receive a breakfast tray when I am sick!"

Elizabeth nodded, happy to see her sister in good spirits but experiencing some uneasiness nonetheless. Her hands balled into fists every time she thought of Mr. Darcy in the library with her sister. If only she were a man, then she could challenge him to a duel to avenge her sister's honor. Yet the previous night in bed she had considered the odd circumstances in the library. Mr. Darcy was rude and unpleasant, but he had not demonstrated the least interest in dallying with any woman, not even Miss Bingley, who was obviously fascinated by him—or at least his fortune.

And Lydia had appeared so horrified at the prospect of marrying him that Elizabeth wondered why she had slipped off with him at all. They were such an …improbable couple. Before last night, Elizabeth would not have been certain Mr. Darcy even knew Lydia's name.

Perhaps she could gain some clarity by speaking with Lydia. "How are you feeling?" Elizabeth asked.

"Better now." Lydia practically bounced as she nodded vigorously. "I had a bad headache when I first awoke, but Hill's coffee helped. And I had Kitty draw the drapes again. The sunshine is unusually bright today." She took a large bite from a piece of toast.

Those symptoms sounded familiar. "How much wine punch did you drink last night?"

"La! How would I know?" Lydia chewed more toast.

Oh, merciful heavens! Had Mr. Darcy procured punch to make her foxed? "Did Mr. Darcy find you punch to drink?"

"Mr. Darcy?" Lydia's tone suggested the absurdity of this idea. "No! It was—" Lydia clapped her hands over her mouth.

Elizabeth regarded her sister closely. "Someone else gave you the wine punch?"

Lydia waved the toast about airily. "I do not recollect precisely. The night is hazy in my memory."

"But Mr. Darcy did _not_ get you the punch?"

"No!" Lydia said scornfully. "I drank it between sets while I was dancing. Lord, dancing makes me so thirsty! And of course I never danced with Mr. Darcy!" She made a face.

Elizabeth was struck by the truth of this statement. She had not noticed Mr. Darcy dancing with anyone at the Netherfield ball. He had observed Elizabeth herself for several minutes, and Charlotte had speculated that he might request a set of her. But then he had disappeared.

Lydia's mouth was full of toast, but that did not stop the torrent of words. "I danced with so many men! Five of them officers! Did you see me?"

Elizabeth made no reply; instead, she considered Mr. Darcy's assertion that another man had consorted with Lydia. "How did you arrive in the library with Mr. Darcy?" she asked.

"I do not recollect precisely," Lydia said with a shrug. "Really, the evening is all a blur."

What if Lydia _had_ accompanied someone else to the library? What if Mr. Darcy had happened upon her after some other man tried to take advantage of her virtue? As much as Elizabeth disliked the idea of her sister committing such an impropriety, she was forced to admit that Lydia could have been vulnerable to a predatory man.

Elizabeth frowned as she considered the implications. The circumstances had seemed so blatantly obvious last night that she had discounted Mr. Darcy's protestations. But spiriting away a young girl from a dance did not seem…likely for Mr. Darcy. Although Elizabeth did not care for him, he seemed too proud and too aware of his family's position to stoop to debauchery—particularly in his friend's library. And he had appeared so horrified by the accusation….

But if not Mr. Darcy, then who? Lydia would not have stolen into the library with a stranger, would she? Although she was likely acquainted with a number of militia officers she considered to be "friends."

If only Elizabeth knew more! She tapped a finger on her chin as Lydia swallowed more coffee. "Did you dance with Mr. Wickham last night?"

Lydia's hand jerked, spilling coffee all over her breakfast tray and night rail. "Look what you made me do, Lizzy!"

"I am sorry." Elizabeth picked up a napkin from the tray to blot Lydia's garment.

Lydia pushed her hands away. "Never mind that. I must change clothes anyway. Kitty and I are walking into Meryton to see some of the officers and have some laughs." She stood and opened the door to her closet to peruse her choice of dresses.

Elizabeth dropped the napkin on the tray. "You cannot flirt with officers now, Lydia. You are betrothed to Mr. Darcy."

"I remember, silly!" Lydia waved away this objection as she shrugged off her night rail and donned her dress. "I shan't _kiss_ anyone! But I must have some fun before I marry that stodgy old man."

Elizabeth was not an admirer of Mr. Darcy's, but she would hardly describe him as stodgy or old. "Engaged women must behave with greater discretion," she said.

"I can be discreet!" Lydia declared. "I shall have discretion shooting out of my ears!" Elizabeth winced at this image as she laced up her sister's dress.

Once her dress was fastened, Lydia flopped back onto her bed. "Although honestly, Lizzy, I wish I were _not_ engaged to Mr. Darcy. I agreed to marry him because everyone said I must, but I always wanted an officer. They are so dashing and so much fun! Mr. Darcy almost never smiles and never laughs."

Elizabeth pulled Lydia into a standing position before she could wrinkle her dress. "I understand, my dear. But the circumstances last night were…quite bad. You are betrothed now, and you must make the best of it."

"That is what Mama said, and she reminded me of Mr. Darcy's fortune." Lydia sighed. "If only he were more dashing…Although I suppose I shall comfort myself with jewels and hats…"

"Yes, indeed," Elizabeth said. She hardly approved of such an obviously mercenary approach to marriage, but Lydia must not break off the engagement. Her reputation was in tatters.

"I cannot wait to tell everyone in Meryton about Mr. Darcy's ten thousand a year!" Lydia giggled.

Elizabeth's righteous anger at Mr. Darcy was gradually transforming into an amorphous regret. Last night she had been so certain of his guilt, but now…if what she suspected was true, he had been wronged, and Elizabeth had helped to wrong him.

Moreover, she did not need to learn more of his character to be certain that he was spectacularly ill-suited to be Lydia's husband; most likely they would both be miserable in the marriage. Elizabeth rubbed suddenly sweaty palms on her gown. _What can I do?_ She had nothing but suspicions and no way of confirming them without Lydia's cooperation.

"I shan't let anyone forget I have a fiancé. A _very wealthy_ fiancé!" Lydia dashed from the room and down the stairs. Elizabeth followed at a slower pace.

At the bottom of the stairs, however, they both encountered Hill, followed by the tall figure of Mr. Darcy. He bowed to the two ladies. "Forgive the intrusion at such an early hour," he said. "But I was hoping to have a word with Miss Lydia."

Elizabeth's first reaction was alarm. Surely he was not suggesting she leave them alone! But then she recalled that they were betrothed, and it was appropriate for betrothed couples to enjoy some privacy. Although she could not imagine what two such different people would say to each other.

Lydia pouted. "I am bound for Meryton with Kitty!"

Elizabeth barely refrained from chastising her sister. How could Lydia treat her fiancé so rudely?

Mr. Darcy looked affronted. "I shall be departing from Hertfordshire within the hour."

Lydia heaved a great sigh. "Very well, I suppose I have time for a brief conversation."

"Thank you for making time for me." Mr. Darcy's tone was so dry that Elizabeth could not discern if he was being sardonic.

"I suppose I must, for I am your fiancée!" She gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance and giggled. "Isn't that such a grand word: fiancée?" Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but Lydia mistook the gesture. "Don't worry, Lizzy," she patted her sister's hand, "I am sure someday a man will want to marry you as well."

Mr. Darcy regarded the sisters with a carefully blank expression. Did he also believe Elizabeth would be lucky to procure a husband?

"You are too good," Elizabeth murmured to Lydia. Mr. Darcy made a strangled sound that turned into a cough.

"I know." Lydia tossed her head so her curls bounced. "Mr. Darcy, shall we retire to the drawing room?"

He nodded mutely.

Lydia turned to the housekeeper. "Hill, please have some tea brought in." Hill scowled at Lydia's imperious tone, but Lydia was reaching for the drawing room door and did not notice.

Mr. Darcy followed Lydia and closed the door behind him. Elizabeth lingered by the door for a moment, reluctant to leave for some reason. Slowly, she became aware of the source of her unease. When had she ceased worrying about Mr. Darcy's influence over Lydia and started worrying about Lydia's influence over him?

Lydia flopped inelegantly into a chair the moment they entered the drawing room. "Lord, I am so tired! All that dancing wore me out!"

Darcy suspected her fatigue had more to do with what she had imbibed rather than how much she had danced, but he stood by the door and said nothing. How could he broach the subjects which needed discussion?

Lydia regarded him sharply. "Will you buy me lace?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want my wedding dress to have real lace that was made in Belgium. None of my friends have real lace from Belgium!"

 _This is what she wished to discuss?_ "Perhaps there are shops in London—"

She did not allow him to finish the sentence. "What kind of carriages do you have?"

Darcy's hand worried the edge of his hat. He took a deep breath. "Well, there is a phaeton, a barouche, a—"

"Is your estate very grand?" she interrupted.

Darcy blinked at the rapid shifts in conversation. "My family house is Pemberley…" he temporized. Did she wish him to brag about his possessions? He found the thought distasteful.

"How many rooms does it possess?"

He rubbed his forehead. This was not how he had imagined his first conversation with his fiancée. "Two hundred and twelve."

Lydia clapped her hands as if she had received a sweet. "Two hundred and twelve! How wonderful! There should be plenty of space for my friends to visit. There is Maria and Helen and—"

Darcy disliked interrupting people, but he could not tolerate any more. "Are you certain they would all like to travel to Derbyshire to visit you?"

Lydia's eyes grew wide. "Pembleton is in Derbyshire? But that is so far away!" she squealed. "It must be closer. That is impossible!"

Darcy sighed. "Unfortunately, I cannot relocate my family's estate to a more convenient location."

Lydia waggled her head. "How vexing!" But then she sat up straighter. "Do you have a house in town?"

"Of course."

"Then I shall live there most of the year, and I will not need to go all the way to Peckerly!" she declared triumphantly.

"If you wish." Darcy silently resigned himself to years of avoiding London.

"It will be wonderful!" Lydia clasped both hands to her bosom. "I shall host the most elegant balls in all of London. And I shan't invite anyone who has been cruel to me."

He needed to redirect the conversation. "About the—"

"And I shall have ostrich feathers for my hair!"

Darcy had never given a moment's consideration to what women wore in their hair. "If you wish—"

"And I—"

Darcy was not sure when this conversation had gone wrong, but he must regain control. She would never stop spinning fantasies in her head. "Lydia, you and I both know there was another man with you."

Lydia froze, suddenly wary. "I am sure I do not know what you mean," she sniffed.

Darcy stepped closer, deliberately looming over her. "I must know the man's identity."

"There was no man." Lydia's voice quavered as she stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Darcy's eyes.

"You did not untie your bodice yourself. Nor did I. I never touched you, save inadvertently when I fell on you." Lydia clamped her lips together tightly. Darcy raised his voice. "I agreed to a betrothal to salvage your reputation, but we cannot marry. You must marry the man who is actually responsible for your plight."

Lydia jumped up from her chair. "Mama says it will be a great scandal if you do not marry me! You cannot renege on your promise!"

Darcy scrubbed his hands over his face. Lydia was correct about the scandal, unless Darcy found the other man and persuaded him to marry her. If she jilted Darcy, it would be a minor contretemps, but if he did not keep his word, the Darcy name would suffer. He prayed that the other man was not already married—and that he would be susceptible to monetary inducement if necessary.

Lydia's lower lip protruded stubbornly. It was time for a different tactic. "Miss Lydia, please see reason. We do not suit each other."

"Of course we suit each other!" she cried. "You shall buy me jewels! And I can be very charming!" She gave him a winsome smile. Darcy shook his head, endeavoring to think of an appropriate argument if such was Lydia's notion of compatibility. "And I shall be a good hostess for your elegant balls!"

The Darcy family had not hosted a ball since his mother's death, and he had no intention of remedying that situation. He sighed. "I could not make you happy."

Lydia slumped into her chair, pouting in a most unladylike manner. "Am I not pretty enough?"

Darcy sighed. This was like arguing with Georgiana at age ten—and at her most petulant. "That is not the issue at all."

Her eyes glistened. "I know I do not have Jane's beauty or Elizabeth's eyes, but—"

"I pray you, do not misunderstand me. You are very pretty." Lydia preened. _Oh, Good Lord!_ "You are…very young—a full thirteen years younger than me."

She shrugged. "Sir William Lucas and his second wife are sixteen years apart!"

Darcy rubbed his forehead. "Being mistress of Pemberley carries with it a great deal of responsibility…the servants, the tenants, societal obligations…"

She fluttered her hands in a dismissive gesture, a motion that reminded Darcy unpleasantly of her mother. "Who manages it now? Your housekeeper?"

"My housekeeper, and my sister, Georgiana, helps."

"A sister!" Lydia clapped her hands together in glee. "How old is she?"

"Sh-she is just sixteen."

"We are almost the same age!" she exclaimed with a bright smile. "Oh, what fun! We will have a grand time visiting dress shops and sharing gossip! Does she like regimentals, too?" Red coats were definitely not one of Georgiana's favorite subjects of conversation. _I will need to keep them separated at least until Georgiana is married._

"Oh, and I may chaperone her when she makes her come out!" She clapped her hands in glee.

 _Lydia had all the restraint of a rabbit in springtime. She would not make a suitable chaperone for a barmaid._ Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose, endeavoring to imagine informing Georgiana that he intended to wed a girl younger than she—and utterly failing. _I must escape this somehow!_

"You must tell me the name of the man who was with you in the library!" he demanded sternly.

"I am sure I do not know what you mean." Lydia pursed her lips stubbornly.

Darcy paced to the fireplace and back. How could he compel her to produce the man's name?

"How much longer must you visit, Mr. Darcy?" Lydia's voice had acquired an unpleasant whiny tone. "I do wish to visit Meryton. The milliner is expecting new ribbons, and if we do not go at once, all the pretty ones will be purchased."

 _How could I listen to such discourse for the rest of my life?_

Darcy stared out of the window. Clearly she would not yield. He could achieve nothing in this visit. Upon his arrival in London, he would consult with his solicitor. Perhaps they could devise other inducements.

"I suppose we are finished," he said.

"La! Finally!" Lydia slid from her seat and scurried from the room before Darcy could utter another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Elizabeth descended the stairs, wondering, not for the first time, how Mr. Darcy and Lydia fared. It was almost impossible to imagine a conversation between them. Mr. Darcy could be severe and have a sharp tongue, but Lydia paid little heed to what others thought of her. That attitude would no doubt distress Mr. Darcy. On the other hand, he might tire of discussing red coats and ruffles.

Hearing no voices emanating from the drawing room, Elizabeth decided to investigate whether Mr. Darcy had departed. To her amazement, when she opened the door she found Mr. Darcy alone. He sat in the far corner with his head in his hands but rushed to his feet when she entered.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth. Lydia left for Meryton a few minutes ago." _Of course she had._ Only Lydia would depart the house and leave her guest alone. Perhaps she would have remained if Mr. Darcy wore regimentals.

When Elizabeth turned her scrutiny on Mr. Darcy, she discovered her anger from the previous evening had melted away. It was impossible to maintain in the face of his obvious distress. His hair was disheveled, and dark circles showed under his eyes. His face was impassive, yet there were signs of strain around his mouth.

He shifted uneasily on his feet. "You need not feel under an obligation to receive me…."

 _Why would I not—? Oh_. Abruptly, Elizabeth recollected their encounter in Netherfield's library. She had been very vociferous, and he might easily believe she was still angry with him. At the time, the evidence of his guilt and reprehensible moral character seemed irrefutable. Now she was not so certain. At that moment Hill arrived with the tea service.

Mr. Darcy glanced from Hill to Elizabeth. "I-I should return to Netherfield," he stammered.

Elizabeth found herself in the odd position of wishing she might do something to alleviate Mr. Darcy's distress. Indeed, he might very well be an inadvertent victim of Lydia's thoughtlessness rather than a scoundrel who sought to take advantage of it. If so, he deserved Elizabeth's consideration, although she could do little to help him. "Please, stay for tea," she murmured.

Mr. Darcy hesitated but then seated himself once again. She poured out a cup, added the sugar she had noticed he preferred, and handed it to him. Then she poured one for herself and took an adjacent chair. Mr. Darcy hunched miserably in his chair as he sipped.

Elizabeth considered how she could demonstrate that she had reconsidered her opinion of him. However, it was a difficult subject to broach. How does one say, "I may have been mistaken in thinking you debauched my younger sister?"

For a long moment silence reigned. Finally, Elizabeth said, "I would like to hear your account of the events of last night."

Mr. Darcy's eyebrows rose. "You were present, Miss Elizabeth. Surely you do not need me to…" He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"You said there was another man with Lydia."

"And you said I must have been false." His tone was level, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

Elizabeth disliked admitting _anything_ to such an unpleasant man, particularly that she might have been in error, but he deserved the truth. "Something Lydia said this morning suggested that someone else had escorted her to the library."

He leaned forward, nearly spilling his tea. "Did she give a name?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "She said nothing directly. I am only surmising based on what she did not say."

"But you believe me?" His gaze on her was very intent. _Why should my opinion be of any importance to him?_

Elizabeth felt like a disloyal sister, but she suspected Mr. Darcy had not been treated fairly. "I believe your story is possible…"

"Thank God!" He slumped back into the chair.

She shrugged, more than a little puzzled by his reaction. "It is not as if my convictions will materially affect your situation." Unless the other man was identified, Elizabeth could hardly condone any efforts to break the engagement, for that would leave Lydia disgraced and unwed.

"I am simply pleased you believe me." He gave her a weary smile.

Elizabeth stared down at the hands clasped in her lap. She owed Mr. Darcy a full account of her thoughts on the subject, but they did her no credit. "I apologize for being hasty in drawing conclusions. I was inclined to believe…that is, in conversation with Mr. Wickham—"

"Wickham?" Mr. Darcy's face darkened. "What did that scoundrel say about me?"

Elizabeth wished she were anywhere else. Why must she be the one to share such stories with Mr. Darcy?

Her fingers twisted together in her lap as the words emerged in a rush. "He-he said you had refused him the living your father had promised and thus left him penniless." She omitted Mr. Wickham's colorful characterization of Mr. Darcy's temperament.

Mr. Darcy exploded from his chair and started pacing the length of the room. " _This_ is what everyone in Meryton believes of me? Small wonder they fancied me capable of seducing a girl of fifteen." Tightness around his mouth suggested that her news pained him. "My _sister_ is barely past fifteen." He shook his head in disgust. Elizabeth's belief in his innocence increased.

Mr. Darcy came to rest near the window, staring out at the grounds of Longbourn without apparently seeing them. "Wickham came to me and expressed his disinterest in taking orders, so I compensated him for the living, and he departed from Pemberley."

"Oh!" Elizabeth's hand rose to her mouth. _Why was I so quick to believe Mr. Wickham's version of the story?_

"He may also have failed to mention that he attempted to seduce…a female relative of mine and convince her to elope with him. Of course, he only wanted her dowry. When I arrived unexpectedly, it ruined his scheme."

"How horrible!" Elizabeth was ashamed she had ever believed Mr. Wickham.

"Do you believe me?" Mr. Darcy regarded her sharply.

Elizabeth spoke without thinking. "Of course!"

He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her. "You believe my version of events over Wickham's?"

"Yes." She paused a moment as she struggled to articulate why. "I do not believe you would trouble yourself to tell me a false story."

Mr. Darcy gave a bark of laughter. "So I am too proud to stoop to lying to you?"

She shrugged helplessly. That was not the message she had intended to convey, but it was not wholly inaccurate.

"I _am_ pleased you believe me to be honorable." Again he watched her with alarming intensity. "At least some good has come from this farce, although too late."

 _What on earth did this cryptic statement mean?_

A half smile quirked one side of Mr. Darcy's mouth. "The circumstances last night did not favor my innocence. In your position I might have made the same judgment."

"What will be your next course of action?" Elizabeth asked him.

Mr. Darcy crossed the room and sank into his chair again before responding. "I must locate the man who _was_ with your sister, but she will not even admit his existence." Rather than anger, Elizabeth now saw weariness and anxiety in his face.

"I can question her again, but she is not likely to confide in me," she offered.

His mouth was set in a straight line. "I would not ask you to spy against your sister."

It was an admirable conviction, particularly given the circumstances. She responded without hesitation. "And I would not have you enter an unwanted marriage because of my sister's…folly. This other man should take responsibility for his behavior."

"It is enough that you believe in my innocence, Miss Elizabeth. Your faith in me is…most welcome." He stared at the fireplace and seemed to have difficulty articulating his thoughts. "However, I would not set sister against sister."

Before Elizabeth could respond, Darcy stood and straightened his coat. "I must speak with your father, and I will return to London today. But I will perforce return to Hertfordshire before long." He gave her a very precise bow. "I bid you good day."

He strode to the door and disappeared within seconds.

Elizabeth remained in the drawing room, considering Mr. Darcy for some minutes. He was a most puzzling man. Lydia's behavior had caused him endless trouble, yet he was insistent that Elizabeth not violate her sister's trust.

Just as Elizabeth contemplated taking up her long-neglected embroidery, a grim-faced Jane slipped into the room, clutching a letter in one hand. "Lizzy, may we talk for a moment?" Elizabeth felt a touch of anxiety. Such distress was most unlike Jane.

Jane sank onto a settee, biting her lip as she smoothed the letter on her lap. "I had a note from Caroline Bingley informing me that the whole party has removed to London."

This was a blow indeed; Jane had been so pleased by Mr. Bingley's attentions. But— "I am sure Mr. Bingley will be back to see you within a fortnight," Elizabeth said.

Jane shook her head slowly, blinking back tears. "Caroline writes that he has no intention of returning to Netherfield and will probably give it up as soon as he receives an eligible offer!" She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "She also implies that Mr. Bingley is interested in Mr. Darcy's sister."

Elizabeth could scarcely credit the news. Mr. Bingley had seemed so enchanted with Jane; they were so perfectly matched. What possibly could have happened?

"Oh." Understanding struck.

"What is it, Lizzy?" Jane asked as she folded the letter into smaller and smaller squares.

Elizabeth rubbed her hand over her lips. "Perhaps this results from the events of last night—with Mr. Darcy."

Jane's brow furrowed.

"Mr. Darcy was angry last night at being forced to propose to Lydia." _With good reason most likely._ "Nor can Mr. Bingley's sisters look favorably on what occurred. Perhaps they are concerned you mean to entrap their brother."

Jane turned white. "I would never—!"

"I know, dearest!" Elizabeth patted her sister's hand reassuringly. "I daresay Mr. Bingley knows it as well." _At least I hope he does._ "But his sisters do not…trust easily."

A small sigh escaped from Jane. "I cannot possibly convince them otherwise if they are not in Hertfordshire."

"No," Elizabeth agreed, silently castigating herself. _By judging Mr. Darcy too hastily, I may have helped to ruin all of Jane's hopes!_ Elizabeth's stomach churned uneasily.

She swiftly considered and discarded various possibilities for rectifying the situation. _Mr. Darcy seemed relieved that I believed his account of the events_. _Perhaps if I speak with him, he could…but he is now_ en route _to London, no doubt full of dark thoughts about the Bennet family_. Not that such thoughts were completely unwarranted.

 _What have I done?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Lydia had managed to slip away from Kitty and Maria Lucas while they were admiring items in the milliner's shop. She only had a few minutes to find Wickham before the other girls sought her out. He had not been at his lodgings with Denny, so Lydia guessed he would be at his favorite pub, the Drowsy Pig.

She hesitated outside the door. A pub was hardly the best place for a girl; she had been warned repeatedly not to visit one alone. _But_ , she reasoned, _there is no choice_. _And I have never viewed the inside of a pub._ Squaring her shoulders, Lydia strolled inside. She squinted around the dim interior until she found Wickham, occupying a corner table and nursing a pint.

As she claimed the seat opposite him, Wickham scowled. "We must not be seen together. Get you gone!"

Her hand inched across the table until it grasped his. "We did not have an opportunity to finish what we started last night." She produced the coy smile that seemed so effective with him.

He jerked his hand out of reach again. _What was the matter?_ "Did you tell anyone I was with you last night?" he whispered.

"Of course not!" Lydia was indignant. "I can keep a secret…most of the time…Well, more than half the time."

Wickham rolled his eyes. "You must not tell anyone. It is vitally important!"

Oh, she had something he wanted. Lydia knew how to play this game. "What will you give me?" She gave a toss of her head.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"I do not want to marry Mr. Darcy."

"Are you a fool? Do you know how much he is worth?"

Lydia shrugged. "I do not care two figs about that. You are a lot more fun. I want _you_." She batted her lashes at him.

For a moment a look of panic crossed Wickham's face, but it was quickly replaced by his usual easy humor—and Lydia was unsure if she had seen it at all. "Of course you do. Darcy is as interesting as dirt."

She leaned forward so he could see down the front of her dress. Men were fools about that sort of thing. Sure enough, Wickham's eyes were drawn to the sight; he licked his lips. "Will you be my hero and rescue me from Mr. Darcy?"

"Certainly." His voice had that dazed quality she so enjoyed. "But-but, not immediately. It will take some time for me to…organize everything. In the meantime, you may enjoy being Darcy's fiancée," Wickham said to her bosom.

"I do not want to wait." She pouted.

Wickham's eyes sparkled. "His family is loaded with jewelry."

Hmm. Now that was intriguing. "Very well, I will wait if you insist."

"It is necessary." He regarded her with heavily lidded eyes. "But that does not mean we cannot enjoy ourselves now and then."

One corner of her mouth curled up. "What did you have in mind?"

"There is this secluded spot right behind the pub…"

She ran her tongue over her lips—something else men liked. "Please, show me."

Life was good, Wickham decided. Life was very, very good. The previous night he had escaped Netherfield's library without being observed, and he had ensured the Bennet girl's silence about his identity.

Of course, the best part of last night—Wickham laughed whenever he thought of it—was that _Darcy_ had been blamed for seducing the girl! Wickham could not have conceived of a better revenge on the man. So proud and haughty, convinced of his own superiority! Wickham almost wished he _had_ orchestrated the circumstances himself; then he could have arranged to see Darcy's face when he was trapped into proposing to the empty-headed chit. They would make a proper pair! Darcy with the stick up his arse, and Lydia Bennet with all the self-restraint of a dog in heat.

Wickham had experienced a moment of panic when Lydia had found him at the pub, but the place had been dim and mostly empty, so he doubted anyone had seen them together. Of course, he had no intention of following through on his almost-promise to Lydia that he would rescue her from Darcy. She had next to no dowry! But if she believed he would run away with her, at least she would keep his secret. What a shame her friends had arrived at the pub before they reached the most fun part of their tryst. Thankfully, they had not seen Wickham, but he really could have used a good roll in the hay.

Wickham's own schemes were progressing nicely as well. Mary King seemed quite taken with his tales of brave militia service. Another week of wooing her and she should be ready to run off to Gretna Green. Then he could quit the militia with its tedious regulations and unreasonable expectations; they expected far too much labor from him.

There was one thing, and it was more of a puzzlement than a genuine obstacle. He felt in his pocket for the note he had received this morning from Sir William Lucas. Wickham had been introduced to the man, but they had never had a private conversation. Why would the man summon Wickham to Lucas Lodge?

However, Wickham had no reason to avoid the man, and the visit might be to his advantage. Thus, after a long, cold ride, he knocked on the door of Lucas Lodge. A footman opened the door, took his coat, and ushered him into a book-lined room which must have been Sir William's study.

Behind the large oak desk, Sir William greeted Wickham and invited him to sit. Then he fell silent, steadily regarding Wickham from behind steepled fingers.

Finally, the silence irritated Wickham. "Sir William? Did you have a matter you wished to discuss?"

"Yes, Mr. Wickham." Sir William rubbed his hand over his mostly bald head. "I had a very interesting experience last night." He paused for Wickham's reaction.

"Oh?" Wickham could not imagine how this related to him.

"Yes." Sir William laid his hands flat on the desk before him. "I grew too warm in the Netherfield ballroom—too much dancing, I suppose." Wickham nodded agreeably, attempting to forget the sight of Sir William dancing; it was a bit like watching a cow do a jig. "So I retreated outside—to Netherfield's back garden, as a matter of fact."

Wickham froze.

"And I came across a most peculiar sight. There is a door at the back of Netherfield, almost hidden in shadows, but I happen to know that it leads to the library. I saw a man slip out of the door and steal his way around to the front of the house where he could rejoin the festivities."

"Did you?" Wickham examined his nails with studied disinterest. Perhaps Sir William was not certain of the man's identity.

"The moon was bright, and I caught a good glimpse of the man's face." Sir William paused, but Wickham said nothing. "It was you."

Wickham blustered. "How could you possibly know that—?"

Sir William chuckled. "Oh, it was you, no doubt about it. I did not realize the import of what I had witnessed until I returned to the ball and learned that _Mr. Darcy_ had been forced to propose to a certain young lady he encountered in the library."

Wickham said nothing, but he could feel the back of his neck growing hot. He licked his suddenly dry lips. Sir William wanted something from him. Hopefully not money, since he had precious little of it.

"I think Bennet would be quite interested to know the actual identity of the man who accompanied his daughter last night. The Bennets were so very good at bringing Darcy up to scratch. What would they do with the man who actually _had_ debauched their daughter—and then fled the scene?"

Sweat had broken out on Wickham's brow, but he dared not mop it with his handkerchief and demonstrate his anxiety.

Sir William settled back into his chair, an amiable smile on his face. "I can imagine it now: Mrs. Bennet shrieking and fainting. Lydia Bennet giggling and squealing. And Mr. Bennet glaring at you through his spectacles before returning to his study." Sir William paused briefly to allow the images to settle into Wickham's mind. "Of course, the Bennet girl would confirm your identity; you would be engaged before you knew it!"

Wickham could not prevent a wince. Lydia was pretty enough and fun for a romp in the hay—not that he had romped very much the night before. But she was also demanding and so damned chatty. An hour of her incessant chatter the previous night had Wickham contemplating suicide—or murder. He could not survive a lifetime with her.

Sir William's hand toyed with a letter opener on the desk. "Of course, _Mr. Darcy_ would be the most interested in this information. It would help him escape the engagement. He would be highly motivated to see you engaged to Miss Lydia."

"What do you want from me?"

The other man smiled. "I am pleased we understand each other. You see, I have a problem with which you can help me." Wickham nodded warily. "I have a daughter, Charlotte, who is eight and twenty." Wickham did not hide his wince. A woman was close to being on the shelf by that age. "An unfortunate cold prevented her from attending the ball last night." Sir William cleared his throat. She is the daughter of my first wife. And my second wife would…like to see her out of the house."

Wickham frowned, shifting uneasily in his seat. "I will not marry your daughter simply to—"

The other man interrupted. "You will be well compensated. She has a generous dowry. In addition, I will pay off your creditors in Meryton."

Now the conversation was growing more interesting! Wickham raised an eyebrow. "How generous?"

Sir William wrote a sum on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk to Wickham, who read it eagerly. It was not as much as Mary King's dowry, but it was not a paltry sum. And success with Mary King was hardly certain while Lucas's daughter was guaranteed. On the other hand, Miss Lucas probably had a face like a horse and a disposition to match; she was still unwed for a reason. Miss King at least was pretty despite the freckles.

"I should take some time to consider…"

Lucas's features hardened. "I want your agreement now, Wickham, or I will go straight to Bennet and tell him all I know."

Wickham ran his hands through his hair. Hellfire! His mind worked furiously to find a way out of this trap, but it was futile. Lydia Bennet brought almost no dowry, so Miss Lucas was infinitely preferable, no matter which barnyard animal she resembled. Wickham sighed. "Very well, I will marry your daughter."

Sir William gave him a wide grin. "Capital! Capital! Return tomorrow, and I will arrange for you to meet Charlotte; you may make the proposal then."

Why must the blasted man move so quickly? Would a couple of days at this point make Charlotte Lucas any less withered? But Wickham could not afford to anger the man. "My pleasure." He smiled through gritted teeth.

He would see how unpalatable Charlotte Lucas was; if the picture was particularly grim…well, he would find some way to escape the marriage.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Collins was perplexed.

He disliked being perplexed. Life should be simple. After all, right and wrong were easy to distinguish. Good and bad behaviors were clearly delineated by society. Moral decisions were simple as long as Collins followed the guidance of his higher power: Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He was thankful for her invaluable advice every day.

When she had sagely determined it was time for him to obtain a wife, she suggested he find someone who was not brought up too high but was also an active, useful sort of woman. It had been Collins's happy thought to choose a wife from among his cousin's daughters since they would lose their home when he inherited it.

It was an elegant solution. It helped to mitigate his guilt, and it complied in every respect with Lady Catherine's deman—suggestion. Above all, it was extremely convenient; Collins did not wish to fuss overly long about this business of finding a wife. Like most things, it should be simple and straightforward.

When Collins first arrived at Longbourn, he had fixed his attentions on Jane Bennet, who was a lovely, serene creature. But Mrs. Bennet had mentioned that her eldest was already attached to the nearby owner of Netherfield. So Collins had turned his attention to the second daughter, Miss Elizabeth, who was happily unattached. Being both active and useful, she also met the criteria Lady Catherine had enumerated. She was also healthy and strong of limb—and had all of her own teeth. She was neither too tall nor too short. And she did not wear feathers in her hair; Collins particularly disliked hair feathers. In all respects, she was admirably suited to his purposes.

Collins had been quite happy with his decision until he actually proposed to Miss Elizabeth—once he got her alone in Longbourn's drawing room. There his plans encountered an unanticipated obstacle. He had laid out all of his considerations quite rationally, assured her that he would not berate her for her lack of dowry, and embellished his proposal with all the extravagant declarations of love that women expected.

And yet she appeared to have refused him.

It was not possible she had _actually_ refused him; that would fly in the face of reason. And Miss Elizabeth seemed to be an eminently sensible woman.

And so very pretty. Not as elegant as Lady Catherine or her daughter, but—

Aha! Collins realized what was happening as he returned his attention to the events in the drawing room. He again listed the great advantages of the match. "I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me. I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females," he informed her.

Collins expected her to laugh and bat her eyelashes, admitting that he had caught her at her game. But instead her lips—pressed firmly together—turned white, and her face grew red. Were those good signs? "I assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man." Her voice held an odd tone he could not decipher. "I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere."

Collins frowned. What was her meaning? What sort of game was she playing? Perhaps it was best to be blunt. "You should take into consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made to you," he warned her.

Her mouth hung open for a moment. Then she closed her mouth and swallowed, a uniformly charming gesture. "No, sir. You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so."

He smiled at her. "Your modesty does you credit, Cousin. But—"

"Really, Mr. Collins," she interrupted him, "I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart."

This greatly resembled a refusal, but Collins knew it was not. There was no reason—no reason at all—that she would refuse him. Therefore, it could not be. Perhaps—ah, perhaps—the problem was a lack of formality! He knelt down somewhat awkwardly on one knee. "You are uniformly charming!" he cried, bravely ignoring the pain in his knee. "And I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both of your excellent parents, my proposal will not fail of being acceptable."

Collins looked up to see how this speech had been received. Surely Miss Elizabeth was now prepared to admit she intended to accept him. However, the room was empty.

 _Really! This was taking the practices of elegant females a bit far!_ Collins regained his feet with the help of a conveniently located chair and strode through the open door into the hallway, which was completely devoid of inhabitants. Was she hoping he would pursue her? He had never heard of such a game, but he had never proposed before.

Perhaps he needed a pet name for her of the sort which was acceptable between husbands and wives. My precious peacock? My dearest cherub? My honey blossom? He could test them—each in turn—to discover which she liked the best. Or when he was her husband, perhaps he should simply select one for her?

Rapid footsteps sounded from the direction of Mr. Bennet's study. Ah, she had consulted with her father, and he had demanded she cease these silly games! However, it was Mrs. Bennet rather than Elizabeth who entered the room. Collins blinked in confusion.

Mrs. Bennet's hands fluttered about her like a pair of butterflies. "Oh, Mr. Collins!" she cried when she saw him.

Collins drew up to his full height, straightening his coat. "My precious honey blossom appears to have refused my suit, but I am not daunted! I have scaled higher castle walls than these. I shall cross the moat and brave the crocodiles—" Mrs. Bennet stared at him, her mouth agape.

She swallowed as her eyes darted about the room. "Lizzy can be quite stubborn in matters such as these," Mrs. Bennet admitted.

"Stubborn?" Collins frowned. "That is not a quality Lady Catherine wishes in my wife."

Mrs. Bennet glanced over her shoulder at the hallway and then stepped a little closer to Collins, lowering her voice. "In truth, Mr. Collins, Lizzy may not be the best choice for you."

He was confused; Elizabeth was his love bunny! "But—"

"Jane's hopes for Mr. Bingley have been dashed to pieces, and she is dearly in need of a… rescuer—a knight, as it were."

Collins considered this for a moment. Yes, he would dearly love to be a rescuer. He could easily envision himself sitting tall on horseback with sunlight gleaming off his armor. What a noble role to play! And Miss Jane would be so pleased by his attentions, so grateful. Much more grateful than Elizabeth, who did not yet know heartache. The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea.

Mrs. Bennet smiled brightly. "Jane would, I daresay, make an excellent clergyman's wife. She is sweet, modest, and a good housekeeper." Mrs. Bennet kept her voice low. Did she not wish her second daughter to hear her praising the elder?

Collins blinked rapidly. He was not accustomed to redirecting his thoughts so quickly, and he must remember Lady Catherine's criteria. "But is she active and useful?" he asked.

Mrs. Bennet stared at him blankly for a moment. "Yes, yes, of course! Very active and very useful."

Collins meditated on Jane Bennet's face. She was quite the prettiest of the sisters and had a soothing serenity that would be appropriate for a clergyman's wife. Lady Catherine would find her acceptable. And after all, Miss Jane was in need of a rescuer…

He smiled. He would show the Bennet family how flexible and magnanimous he could be; he was not too fixed on one woman as his choice of wife. "Very well, I am sure Miss Bennet would be eminently acceptable."

Mrs. Bennet's shoulders sagged in relief. "Very good! Please remain here in the drawing room, and I will send Jane in directly."

Jane was reading with Kitty and Lydia in the blue parlor when her mother arrived. Her favorite poetry was no consolation today; any poem about love made her melancholy. She had switched to a popular novel, but it waxed eloquent about the love between two characters, bringing tears to her eyes. Finally, in despair, Jane had picked up Fordyce's _Sermons_ , which did not remind her of Mr. Bingley but did little to hold her attention.

Her mother burst through the door, startling all three inhabitants of the room. "Jane, come quickly! Mr. Collins wishes to speak with you!"

Kitty and Lydia exchanged a look and giggled.

 _Mr. Collins? What could he possibly have to say to me?_ However, Jane obediently closed her book and stood. "I do not understand." She had suspected their cousin intended to ask for Lizzy's hand, but Jane knew Lizzy's temperament and knew his suit would be in vain.

"You need not understand!" her mother responded in a vexed tone. "Just come!"

Shrugging, Jane followed her mother into the hallway and through the door to the drawing room, where indeed Mr. Collins was sitting.

Mama took Jane's hand and stared meaningfully into her eyes. "Mr. Collins has had a trying day. We must do _everything_ in our power to make him happy." Then she winked at Jane. What could her mother possibly mean?

Mama gave Mr. Collins a little smile and a wave of her handkerchief. Then… _oh, merciful heavens!_ She quitted the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Jane _alone_ with Mr. Collins.

Mystified and more than a little anxious, Jane seated herself on the sofa closest to the fireplace and gave Mr. Collins a tentative smile. "You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "Er…" He cleared his throat noisily. "Um…almost since the first day in this house I singled you out as the companion of my future life."

It took Jane a moment to decipher his convoluted syntax. _Oh, Good Lord! He is proposing to me!_

Jane's first impulse was to race for the door so she need not respond to Mr. Collins's proposal. Her feet twitched with the need to flee. But of course, she could never bring herself to be so impolite, so she willed her feet to immobility.

She realized Mr. Collins was still speaking. "But before I am run away with my feelings on the subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying…"

Jane stifled the impulse to laugh at the thought that Mr. Collins would ever allow his feelings to run away with him. As the man recited his reasons for marrying, Jane considered him. _Lizzy is correct; this man is a bore and pompous as well._

"And thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, marriage is the particular recommendation of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh…"

Jane tried to concentrate on Mr. Collins's words. She really did, but it was so difficult. Why was he not saying these words to Lizzy? She was the object of his attentions but could easily say no to him.

In a sudden rush of horror, Jane realized why some of Mr. Collins's words sounded rehearsed. He had already proposed to Lizzy and been turned down! And now Mama wanted Jane to accept in her place.

Jane's stomach did a slow flip, which had nothing to do with what she had eaten for lunch. Whenever Jane thought of marriage, of walking down the middle of the Meryton church, she pictured Mr. Bingley's face at the end of the aisle. But now that was not to be.

Jane had finished shedding tears over it. She had. She was perhaps still a trifle melancholy, for Mr. Bingley was the most amiable man of her acquaintance. But she would never see him again. Netherfield would be let by another family, and someday Mr. Collins would inherit Longbourn—when he would be free to turn Jane's mother and her unmarried sisters into the hedgerows.

A little sigh escaped Jane, but Mr. Collins did not notice. What did it matter who she wed if she could not wed Mr. Bingley? She could not imagine falling in love with another man. The experience had been too painful; in the future, Jane would guard her heart.

"Let her be a gentlewoman for my sake, and for your own, let her be an active, useful sort of woman, not brought up too high and able to make a small income go a good way…"

Oh, heavens! Mr. Collins was still speaking about Lady Catherine. But Jane had no doubt she would rub along tolerably with Mr. Collins's patroness; no one ever disliked her. In this way, she supposed, she was better suited to marry Mr. Collins than Lizzy would be.

And marrying Mr. Collins would bring so much joy to so many. Her mother would be happy for the security. Her sisters would be excited that they need not leave Longbourn when Papa died. Mr. Collins would be happy to secure a bride who would be acceptable to his patroness.

Jane tried not to consider Lizzy's reaction.

Jane could not have Mr. Bingley. She could not have happiness. But if she married to secure her family's future, perhaps she could have contentment. Providing for her family would bring its own kind of happiness.

"And now nothing remains but for me to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection." He landed on his knees before Jane's sofa, almost as if he were at the end of a carnival act.

Had he uttered these same words to Lizzy? She supposed he had. Well, it mattered little. Despite his passionate declarations, Jane had few illusions about Mr. Collins's sentiments. Still, he was willing to fake affection, and perhaps that was a start. Jane could pretend the affection was real and could respond with false affection of her own. He might never know the difference. Surely that was better than nothing.

Mr. Collins regarded her expectantly. Now was the time. She must make a decision. She could postpone it no longer. Jane closed her eyes and said a little prayer for forgiveness. Then she opened them and looked down at him. "Yes, Mr. Collins, I will marry you."

Bingley stood at the top of the steps, waiting as the carriage pulled to a stop before his townhouse. Then he hurried down the stairs, nearly reaching the carriage door before the footman, although he was in time to hold his mother's hand as she alighted from the vehicle.

"Thank you, Charles. It is wonderful to see you!" She gave him a sweet smile and drew him into a warm hug. Bingley squeezed her tight, conveying his love and happiness at seeing his mother again. However, she felt smaller and frailer in his arms. Had she actually lost weight, or was it his imagination?

"Six months is too long, Mama," he said as he finally released her. "Next time you travel, I pray you, do not make it such a lengthy trip."

"I do not have any future travel plans," she responded in a quiet voice. Where had her usual exuberance gone? People often compared her temperament to Bingley's own.

As always, he offered her his arm on the steps into Bingley House, but for the first time she actually leaned on him as they ascended. She stumbled twice and would have fallen the second time if Bingley had not caught her hand. It was disturbing. Of course, his mother was aging just like everyone else, but Bingley had never expected her to grow _old_.

"Louisa and Caroline are visiting Uncle Robert in Scarborough," he said once they had attained the front portico. "But I have written to them that you are back in England."

"It will be nice to see them," his mother responded.

As they approached, the butler whisked the door to Bingley House open, and Bingley escorted his mother into the front hallway. "Would you like to go to your room and freshen up?" he asked.

"No. I have not seen you for so long, and letters only convey so much. I will rest later." His mother took decisive steps toward the front drawing room.

Bingley shrugged. "As you wish." He sent the butler for tea and followed her. As he helped situate her on the sofa, the very fact that she did not object to his overly solicitous behavior bothered him.

"Your letters made Italy sound fascinating." He smiled at her after he had taken a seat.

His mother clapped her hands almost like a small child. "Oh, it was! The weather was delightful. And the sculptures—oh, lovely statuary everywhere you look! Your Aunt Margaret was enthralled by the food, as you can imagine."

Bingley chuckled. "If Italy was that delightful, I am surprised you returned so soon."

He meant the words as a jest, but his mother appeared unexpectedly grim. "I would have been pleased to remain longer."

Bingley's heart beat a little faster. "What do you mean? Nothing compelled you to return. I know you miss us, but—"

"Of course not. But, Charles, I…I am ill."

Bingley's heart plunged into his feet. "Ill?" he croaked.

"I experienced some fainting spells. The doctor in Italy speculated that it was my heart. He bade me return home and order my affairs."

Bingley swallowed, wishing to deny the doctor's every word. "How long…d-does he think—?" He could not bring himself to finish.

She shrugged. "He could not say. It could be years. It could be days."

Bingley blew out a breath. "Oh, Mama." He moved to sit next to her on the sofa and enveloped her in another hug. Somehow she had become even frailer in the past few minutes. "We must have you examined by a doctor here in London."

"Yes," she squeezed his hand, "but I am at peace with whatever happens, Charles. Perishing at eight and fifty would hardly be considered a life cut tragically short."

Bingley's eyes ached, and he rubbed them with his free hand. "I-I am n-not prepared to lose you."

"You will be fine." She patted his arm reassuringly. "You have stepped into your father's shoes rather well. You are a son I can be proud of."

"Thank you." Bingley blinked rapidly. "Are you in pain? What may I do to help?"

"I have occasional chest pain, not severe. But there is one thing…"

His hand enclosed hers. "Anything," he breathed.

She smoothed his hair away from his face. "I pray you, tell me you made an offer to that nice Bennet lady you described in your letters."

Bingley froze in place. His muscles locked up and prevented him from moving so much as an inch. "Offer?"

"You wrote how you were considering proposing, and on the ship from Italy my thoughts were preoccupied with the hope that you had done so. A wife will help you build a family and order your life. You are too old to flit about England, changing your mind like your sister changes clothes."

"A wife." Bingley swallowed.

She rubbed his cheek affectionately. "From your letters it seems Miss Bennet appreciates your fine qualities. I thought you might be married by the time I arrived."

His mother's eyes brimmed over with excitement and hope. The thought of extinguishing that hope crushed him. "No, not married," he admitted.

"But you did propose?" his mother asked, watching him closely.

How could he reveal the truth? That he had abandoned Jane based on unfounded suspicions? That he had yielded to his sisters' pressure and likely caused the woman he loved endless heartache? Every night he lay in bed, meditating on Jane Bennet's face and wondering if fleeing Netherfield had been the best choice. But he was too much of a coward to rectify his mistake.

Her pale blue eyes regarded him so earnestly that he could not bear to disappoint her.

No. After breaking his own heart, and likely Jane's, he could not break his mother's as well. What if her disappointment prompted a heart seizure? He could not risk worsening her health.

Bingley remained absolutely still as a moment of clarity washed over him. His mother wished to see him married. Now he realized that above all else he wished to _be_ married. These weeks away from Jane had been colorless and bleak. Away from his sisters' constant criticism, Bingley had become dubious that the Bennets had sought to entrap him—and more convinced of Jane's true feelings.

Over the past weeks, Bingley's feelings for Jane Bennet had not dissipated as they had in his previous affaires de coeur. The persistence of such emotion proved his niggling suspicion: he was in love with her and should have proposed to her.

He was seized by an overwhelming urge to saddle his horse and gallop to Hertfordshire without delay. True, Jane might refuse him, but he did not think that likely. Surely she returned his affections.

He was decided. He would visit Hertfordshire and beg Jane's hand, in which case he need not reveal to his mother how he had abandoned his love at his sisters' behest. He was heartily ashamed of himself.

Therefore, if he told his mother he had proposed to Jane, it would merely be…premature—not an actual lie.

Bingley shoved his fingers through his hair, noting the sweat breaking out on his brow. He had never uttered such a falseho—premature declaration in his life. But his mind was decided. "You will love her, Mama. She is an angel."

"So she accepted you?"

 _It is for her own benefit_ , Bingley reminded himself. "Yes. She has the sweetest temperament—never a harsh word to say about anyone."

"She sounds well suited to you, Charles." His mother smiled beatifically at him.

He shrugged, hoping he appeared modest rather than ashamed. "She is far better than I deserve." _Particularly given how I have treated her_.

But Jane was a forgiving creature. Surely she would understand his reservations, and they could swiftly relegate all the unpleasantness to the past. Bingley would return to Longbourn and propose immediately. Then his mother would happily witness his wedding, none the wiser about when the proposal had occurred.

He was certain…almost certain…well, mostly certain that Jane loved him and wanted to marry him. It had only been a few weeks since he had quitted Hertfordshire. Surely she would not have forgotten him so soon. He could beg her forgiveness and ask for her hand. She was an angel; she would forgive him, and they would wed.

His mother sighed blissfully. "It sounds perfect." Bingley fervently hoped it would be.


End file.
